


Carcosa

by WearingOutWinter



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: F/F, Horror, artifacts belonging to eldritch abominations are not toys, maybe dark comedy I guess?, the king in yellow - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-29
Updated: 2014-12-01
Packaged: 2018-02-27 10:44:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2689889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WearingOutWinter/pseuds/WearingOutWinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Song of my soul, my voice is dead;<br/>die thou, unsung, as tears unshed<br/>shall dry and die in<br/>Lost Carcosa."<br/>-Cassilda's Song, The King in Yellow, Act One, Scene Two.</p>
<p>Carmilla isn't dead.<br/>It's so much worse than that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The water of the lake was wrong. It was subtle, at first. A tiny tingle on the skin when you slipped your hand in. A faint silvery shimmer when you lifted it to your lips. But the water tasted like old, stale blood, and made you see things.

Carmilla hunched her shoulders and hurried past a man in a tall hat and frock coat, who had beetles instead of eyes. She needed to get back undercover before dawn. She could handle one sun, but the two that shared the sky in this place made her twitchy.

And she was already twitchy enough, thank you very much. She had seen Ell three times in the past...

the past...

the past given length of time.

The last time, she was sitting under a leafless tree, devouring peaches from a basket. She spat each pit onto the ground at her feet, and where they landed, enormous maggots, pale and quivering, sprouted from the earth and curled about her feet like housecats.

And, granted, the other hallucinations weren't great, but that one had shaken Carmilla up nice and proper. She really, really needed to find somewhere to curl up for the day. And then, maybe she could work on getting out of here. Wherever “here” was.

Well, there was a lake. A city beside it, ruined and abandoned. She had walked the streets, when she was looking for shelter. But something about the lines and angles of the place made her head throb and the visions more frequent, so she had fled, and did not intend to brave the crumbling walls again. It was best not to look at the sky, no matter the time of day. The suns were obviously bad, but the stars weren't great either. Looking at the night sky gave Carmilla an unpleasant feeling at the front of her skull, like her eyeballs were about to be sucked out of her head. So she kept her head on the sand and stone beneath her feet, and breathed a sigh of relief when she found a cave carved into the copper-colored stone.

It might have been the same cave she had slept in the day before. Then again, it might not have been. Distances were another thing this place made difficult. As the light rose outside, Carmilla curled into a ball on the cave floor, and chose to believe that spiders were another vision brought on by the ill-favored water of the nameless lake.

Laura was outside when she woke up. She stood in front of a small round table, folding cloth napkins and straightening the chairs. In the middle of the table was a suckling pig, brown and crisp. It's mouth hung open, waiting for a chestnut.

Laura reached out and adjusted the sprig of parsley behind one of the beast's ears.

“It's missing something.” She turned and looked at Carmilla. “Don't you think so?”

The vampire said nothing. She might have to listen to the damn hallucinations, but she wasn't going to talk to them. There were very few handholds on sanity left to her. She was doing to grip those she had until her fingernails broke.

“Just a little something,” Laura continued, thoughtfully. “Ah, I know.”

Carmilla watched as she plucked the carving knife from the table, and lifted it to her face. The vampire fought to keep a neutral expression as Laura deftly carved out her left eye and placed in the pig's open mouth.

“There,” she said with satisfaction. She turned towards Carmilla, her empty socket weeping red. “Now it's perfect. Don't you think?”

That did it. Carmilla lurched away from the phantom Laura and the phantom table and fell to her knees, retching.

“Why the fuck is it always with food?" She mumbled the words around a mouthful of bile. "Why does the really awful shit always involve--”

“Gee, I dunno. Maybe 'cause you're a vampire?”

Carmilla's head snapped upwards. Standing before her was LaFontaine, hands on hips. They wore wearing a shapeless yellow smock, and a centipede the size of boa constrictor was draped around their shoulders. As Carmilla scrambled to her feet, LaFontaine shot her a quick grin.

“Hey Carm. You look good.”

“You're not real.” Carmilla said the words before she realized she was breaking her one rule.

“No, I'm not. But hey, I might still be helpful.”

Carmilla's mouth shut in a thin line, and she turned her back and marched away.

“Look, it's not really that complicated.” LaFontaine fell into step beside her, apparently undiscouraged. “You're a vampire aristo from the seventeenth century. You're entire existence is based around consuming things that do not, in any moral sense, belong to you. You're a parasite.”

As they spoke, several of the centipede's legs stroked their chin affectionately. LaFontaine reached up and absent-mindedly scratched the thing under its mandibles. It made a chittering sound that Carmilla resolutely refused to classify as cute and rippled along its whole length.

“So what? I'm being punished for my sins? Is this some kind of Dante bullshit?”

“Ha, no.” LaFontaine scoffed. “C'mon, Little Miss Bloodsucker, you really think this is Hell?”

Carmilla's attempted escape route had brought them back towards Laura had her table. The freshman was sitting quietly, one-eyed and bloody, her napkin tucked into her chin as if she were preparing to eat a lobster.

“Isn't it?” Carmilla asked, unable to look away Laura's face.

“Nope. It's Carcosa.”

Carmilla opened her mouth to argue. She was ready, after fuck knew how many days in this place, this _Carcosa_ , to have a really massive argument with a figment of her own unraveling psyche. But the centipede purred and the blood on Laura's cheek dripped, and the vampire sighed.

“Alright. So if I'm not being punished, what's going on?”

LaFontaine shrugged. “Well, to be honest, it's not much better.”

“I can handle it” Carmilla said through gritted teeth.

“If you say so. You're being digested.”

“Digested.” Carmilla's voice was flat.

“Yep.”

“As in eaten.”

“Very similar. It's a little like digestion and a little like white blood cells attacking an infection.” LaFontaine gave the centipede a pat on the chitonous exoskeleton. “The place is starting to get a feel for you. A taste of what you're all about, you know?”

“And that's what's making me see things?”

“Well, yeah.” LaFontaine spread their hands. “It's starting slow. It always does. Little nibbles around the edges, that kind of thing. Your mind, first. Fraying away your consciousness at the edges. It'll start with your body soon. Keep counting those fingers.”

“So that's it, then.” Carmilla stared at LaFontaine. “Life after death means dying again, but more horribly.”

Lafontaine's eyes narrowed. “Give me a break, Countess. Self-pity doesn't really become a vampire.”

“Oh, really?” Carmilla snorted. “So tell me, what are you actually  _for?_ To give this place a voice to laugh at me as I am eaten?”

“No.” LaFontaine's lips were pressed together into a thin and bloodless smile. “I'm a cancer.”

“What?” Carmilla was brought up short.

“Cancer. You know how cancers con the immune system into ignoring them?” LaFontaine blinked. “Actually, as a undead who doesn't have to worry about diseases, you probably don't. Well, think of it like this, then: alike in form, but not in function. But let's get back to your little pity party. Life after death? Really?”

LaFontaine stepped forward, jabbing a finger into Carmilla's chest. The centipede hissed at her.

“You've had three _centuries_ of life after death. And you won every year by theft and lies and murder. Every. Single. Year.”

Carmilla took a step backwards, retreating from LaFontaine's sudden wrath.

“But,” they said, seeming to calm as quickly as they had angered. “even now, you may postpone your reckoning. Even now, you might find a way out.” LaFontaine pointed at her. “Carcosa has rules. Learn them. It has bones. Break them. It has veins. Open them with your fangs. Hell,” they shrugged, and the centipede chittered happily. “You might even be able to find your way out.”

"Out?" Carmilla blinked. "You mean I could go home?"

"Well..." LaFontaine waved a hand, the movement mirrored by the centipede. "I'm not sure I'd go that far. But I guess you might get lucky. At the very least, you wouldn't be here anymore."

"I'll take it." Carmilla let out a shaky breath. 

"Thought you might." LaFontaine grinned at her. "Run along now, little vampire. Delve into all the awful truths that mortal minds were never meant to know."

"I'm not mortal," Carmilla said as she turned away. 

"I know," LaFontaine called from behind her. "It's the only reason you have a chance."

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Carcosa was not empty, Carmilla realized. It was full of words.

They crawled between the cracks in crumbling steps, writhed in the stone of every wall. They lay entombed in great metal plates at the bottom of the lake. They were etched in the sand by the cold winds. She couldn't read a word of them, of course. They were made of sigils and glyphs the like of which she had never seen before, and of course they moved. So Carmilla followed them as they marched like ants across the ruined city, spiraling through the streets and alleys. They lead her to a great hall, its roof fallen in, its floor thick with dust. At one end sat a stone seat, high-backed and imposing.

A throne, Carmilla thought as she inspected it, hands on hips. A throne like that should not be empty. She took a step towards it, but the words around her feet swirled sudden and violently, and she hesitated. Perhaps not, then. But if she was to learn the rules of Carcosa, she would need first to learn its language.

She suspected that might take some time.

She hadn't seen any more of LaFontaine, or the cancer that wore her face. She saw Laura and Ell, plenty of times, and even her mother once or twice. She had seen entirely too many damn insects in entirely too many damn sizes. But of the curiously informative vision and their pet centipede, not a trace.

So there was nothing to do but the fling herself into the study of the language of Carcosa. She spent her nights following the marching sigils, hoping they would lead her to understanding. She spent her nights curled into caves and crannies, far from the light of the twin suns, dreaming fitfully of letters that skittered across the page and tried to hide under dust jackets.

Carmilla found her first glimmer of understanding in a drowned cave deep beneath the lake. There, where her hair bobbed in the currents and the language glowed a faint yellow-green, a single word jumped out at her.

_Mine._

It echoed in the c averns of her head. That particular glyph meant “belonging to me.”

She reached out, to brush her finger across the symbol before it vanished forever, but stopped with her hand hanging before her face. Her hand was wrong.

The third finger of her left hand was missing. She had felt no pain, shed no blood. It was simply gone, the first knuckle ending in old scar tissue. Carmilla clenched her remaining fingers into a fist. LaFontaine had warned her of this. She had to be careful. She had to be quick. She would not allow Carcosa to nibble her down to nothing. Not while she still had breath.

And with that thought to steady her, the vampire walked out of the lake.

-x-

Little by little, the language unfolded itself for her. Her understanding, while imperfect, grew steadily. The differentiation between the tenses was fairly muddy, for example. “To be” verbs were small and skulking things that were easily missed. But soon she was reading quite long sentences, and learning much. 

She learned that Carcosa had a ruler, a figure of power in yellow robes, who was called the king.  A king who could make men mad, or make them whole. A king who could blacken stars and suns and cast down emperors. And with every paean she read to the monarch's power, Carmilla's plan became a little clearer. She would find the king of this dead and hungry land. Call him back from distant wanderings or pull him whole from the jaws of his own kingdom, in made no difference to her. She would find him, and extract from him a favor: safe passage away.

In between reading and plotting, Carmilla fretted. Every evening when she woke, every morning before she slept, she checked her flesh to make sure it was all still there. She counted fingers and toes, nails and teeth, eyes and lips and bones. Usually, everything was still there. Sometimes, it wasn't.  On the morning after she discovered the first mention of the king's yellow mask, she found herself without the last two ribs on her right side. (One or two of the organs behind them might have been gone too. She hadn't had much use for them in the past three hundred years, so it was hard to be sure.)

After that, Carmilla flung herself headlong into deciphering every word she could. She even began to brave the searing sunlight of Carcosa's days, anything to hasten her escape.

She learned of a ritual, to be performed in the throne room of the city. There was an element of confession to it, apparently. And one of penance. But when it was done, “then the King in Yellow shall appear and all shall know.” That was good. That was perfect. But there was only the vaguest of description of how the ritual should be performed. Carmilla slammed her fist into the words, and watched them scatter from the blow. It was all going too slowly. Far too slowly.

It was a few days later, as she followed a meandering line of text down the shore, that her vision changed. It was so sudden that she almost went sprawling headlong into the sand. Things that had been clear became blurred, colors changed and deadened. Carmilla's hand flew to her face. Surely, she hadn't just lost an eye.

No, she hadn't. They were both still there. The vampire stumbled to the water and stared down at her reflection.

Ah. So that was it: the iris of her left eye was gone. Her pupil floated alone, a single pinprick in the white sclera.  And, yes, along with it had gone her ability to see colors out of that eye. With her right closed, the entire world was greyscale.

Carmilla rose slowly to her feet. The loss of her finger had alarmed her. The loss of her ribs had frightened her.  Now, she felt she had used up her last second chance. There would be no further reprieve. There could be no further delay. She would waste no more time on rest. The next time she slept, it would be under the sun of her own world.

-x-

Beneath the lake were the caves. Beneath the caves were the chains. The words showed her the way to them. Each link was as wide as she was tall, all pitted and rusted metal. Words marched across the chains too, but no words Carmilla had ever seen before. No, these were new words. Special words. The words that would set her free.

The ritual was there. Every word, every action. Spells and incantations and evocations. The number was there, and the names. And so, in some small way, was the king himself.  She could feel his smile on the back of her neck as she climbed, dripping, from the lake. The empty throne was waiting.

-x-

There were no words upon the floor when Carmilla stepped back into the throne room. Perhaps they knew they were no longer needed.  The vampire took a moment to steady herself. To run over the words in her head one last time. She was sure of the translation. Well—reasonably sure, anyway. One or two words were still giving her trouble. Still, she was sure she could change things on the fly if anything went wrong. 

The only thing to do was begin.

“Three are the chains that bind me here. Three are the links in every chain.” Carmilla said, her words echoing in the empty hall. “First, the chain of lies. Three are the women whose love I betrayed.”

She could see them, each of them, floating before her in the darkness.

“Ell, to whom I pretended life.” She turned towards Ell, and gave her a sad smile. “Sweet Ell. I told you that you made my heart beat faster, when it never beat at all.”

She turned away.

“Mother, to whom I pretended loyalty. For so long, Mother. Three centuries of kneeling at your feet, receiving orders. Three centuries of lying between your legs, following them.”

She turned towards the last figure who shared the darkness with her. Laura. Laura, stubborn and clever and sharp as nails. Laura, who with one eye saw more than most mortals could with two.

Carmilla blinked. Laura had two eyes. Of course she did. Why had she ever thought differently? She shook herself, and continued.

“Laura, to whom I pretended bravery. I told you I'd fling myself headlong into perdition for the sake of innocent lives. But the only one I ever cared about was yours.”

Carmilla paused for a moment, bowed her head. When she raised it again, the three women were gone. In their places floated two men and a woman. Ah.

“Second is the chain of murders. Three are the victims whose lives I ended. The first was the well-meaning rescuer.”

The first figure, masked and soot-stained, regarded her silently.

“It was in Lisbon, in the middle of the eighteenth century. The earthquake that shook the city apart. Half drowned when the waves rolled in. The other half burned. I was trapped in the latter half.”

Carmilla shook her head.

“I was young. Inexperienced, and weak. For the first time, I was seized by the horror of flames. The fear of true death. So I ran. I ran and crawled and hid myself in the cool and crushing shadows of a collapsed building. And then, this brave idiot showed up, masked against the smoke, pulling people from the rubble and the flames. He pulled apart the stones of my sanctuary and reached down to pull my up into the fire-lit world. So I opened his throat and drank until his heart stuttered and stopped.”

Carmilla began to pace up and down the line of phantoms, pausing at the second.

“The obnoxious lordling. We met in Sarawak, both guests of Brooke. He leered and beat his servants and tried to look down my dress. He also invited me to accompany him on a leopard hunt. I declined, but went out into the jungle the next morning anyway. It was almost like a game: rustling in the shadows, drawing him away from his guides and porters. And then, when he was quite alone, I fell on him, all paws and claws and teeth, and tore him apart like a doll.”

She smiled to herself, but the expression faded when she stopped before the woman.

“My sister of the blood. Mother picked her up in Istanbul, I think. Because she had dark hair, dark eyes, and a cruel smile, and Mother has a type. I met her a few years later, when we were preparing for the usual sacrifice.”

Carmilla sighed.

“I wish I had known what an appetite she had then. Mother had sent me to court a peasant girl, scarcely more than a child, not even a month away from home. I had learned everything she found unpleasant, impolite, or offensive, and was in the middle of a week-long project to drive her screaming back to whatever sleepy village she came from. Mother never suspected. But my dear sister was waiting in the street on the night that I finally got the girl to smash a wine bottle over my head and leg it. I dried myself off and walked out to find her standing over the girl's body. And she kissed me with her lips still bloody and thanked me for my gift.”

The phantom vampire's face was impassive. Carmilla glared at her as she continued.

“She was young. Weaker than me. Less resilient, too. She didn't have any of the little advantages I've picked up over the years. So I dragged her to a quiet, out of the way cemetery, where we wouldn't be disturbed. Then I nailed her to an east-facing wall and left her for the dawn.”

She turned away from her lineup of victims, walking back to the center of the room. Again, she addressed the empty throne.

“Third is the chain of scars. Three are the wounds I have suffered that will not heal. By my lost finger, by my missing bones, by my colorless eye, I am marked by this place.” She clenched her fists at her sides. Behind her eyes, the words burned. “Three are the names of the forgotten city and three are the holes in the yellow mask.”

She raised her left hand to her mouth, to her fangs, and scored three long slashes across her palm. From each wound a single drop fell to the dusty stone floor.

“Three are the drops of blood I shed. By rite of chains and names and blood, I call the King in Yellow.”

She paused.

She waited.

There was nothing. No glowing figure appeared to sit upon the thrown. No voice spoke to her out of the shadows. No sound disturbed the Carcosa night.

No sound except the soft thump of heavy cloth falling to the ground.

Carmilla looked down. Pooled at her feet was a yellow robe, frayed and tattered. Ah. So she had been missed something, then. It wasn't 'call.' It wasn't 'call' at all.

The robes were heavy when she lifted them, but when she slipped them around her shoulders, they slid over her skin as easily as silk. Beneath them was a yellow mask, warm to the touch, which fit her face perfectly.

The robes rustled as she walked to the empty throne. When she reached it, she turned to look out over the empty hall.

“By rite of chains and names and blood,” she said, her voice echoing deep and ancient behind the mask, “I am called the King in Yellow.”

When she sat upon her throne, all Carcosa shook. The King in Yellow smiled behind her mask.

“And now,” she said, “I think I shall go home.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... you might have noticed the chapter count has gone from two to three. I ended up deciding that the return of Carmilla to what might tenuously be called reality deserves its own chapter. I had an absolute ball writing this one, so I hope to have the conclusion done fairly soon.


End file.
